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Valjean blames that loaf of bread for everything that went wrong in his life. Even now, as a respectable mayor in M-sur-M, he can barely stand the look of bread, the smell or the taste of it. But it's not as if he can explain why to anyone, and people just keep feeding it to him, so he just has to pretend there's nothing wrong.

Of course, that would be so much easier if he didn't have to eat it every day.

He just couldn't eat it. He stared at the offending object, willing it to vanish. But eventually, when it stayed stubbornly there and the cooks pleas became even more desperate, he forced himself to take it and eat it.His stomach grumbled unhappily, and a mental image of a broken window, then seven starving children, flashed across his mind. What was in his mouth tasted of ashed but he choked it down, nodded his thanks to the baker, and left as quickly as he could before his stomach rejected the bread entirely.

He used to be able to eat bread, used to love the smell of a fresh crust when his father bought one home as a treat. But somewhere, into his prison term he'd become unable to eat it. The images flashed across his brain with every bite and his gut hurt afterwards. In prison he just grit his teeth and suffered, exchanging his loaf for something else whenever he possibly could. Early on in his freedom he could avoid it too, pleading poverty and scrounging vegetables instead.

Now, as mayor, it was a different situation. The three bakeries in the town seemed to compete to offer him their freshest and best. Further more, because of his status, he was expected to eat it, and the high quality brioche too. more often than not he'd buy what they offered, then sneak it to the hospital or the next Savoyard that approached him. They were grateful, and he wasn't rude. But he was having to eat it more and more, with all the unpleasant consequences. In fact, he was certain his reaction to the mere thought or smell, never mind eating, ha gotten worse over the years. In prison he'd lasted several hours before the worst hit him, now it was barely one. Perhaps it was because he;'d lost all chance of contact with his kin, yet now had money enough to feed them till the children were stuffed

“Monsieur Madeleine.”He sighed un-noticeably and wandered over “good morning Jean-Paul”The baker beamed at being addressed by his first name, and returned to the shop. When he returned it was carrying a large bread bun“If Monsieur would try my new creation, it would be a very great honour. See, it has nuts and fruit in it.” The baker twirled the bun like a conjurer.

Javert watched from a distance as the mayor spoke with the baker. Ridiculous how close the man got, how friendly even to the middling ranks, never mind the poor. He turned away, not noticing the growing pallor on the Mayor's face as he ate.

“Tres bon” He forced the last lump down his throat with a convulsive swallowThe Jean-Paul's eyes lit up with delight “Perhaps Monsieur would like another, to take home”He held up his hands “No no Monsieur, save your stock for the people of this town. Exchanging final pleasantries and managing to not show the churning, rising nausea in his stomach he walked away.

One hand on the wall he staggered into the short cut alley, trying to hold out long enough to get under cover, to get home. His stomach heaved violently, and he conceded defeat.

Valjean/Javert, blatantly kinky and D/s undertones and eyebrow-raising power dynamics that are never acknowledged as sexual to the point of it being ludicrous.

Because what these two do or don't do with their dicks is not relevant to my interests, but the scene with Javert demanding that M. Madeleine fire or otherwise punish him makes me go weak-kneed with HNNNNGH.

If a man wants to halt the progress of small-town gossip, he must wipe that town from the face of the earth, because otherwise it is as futile an aim as shaping marzipan during a hurricane. Neither wealth nor position nor fear of the law can stop the whispers, any more than the lark can stop the wind from making its dry music among the aspen leaves. So it was no surprise to anyone, except perhaps the pair at the center of the storm, when rumors began flying about the mayor and the police inspector.

Bousquet understood and disagreed. “Haven’t you seen the way the Inspector scowls at him?”

“And what better way to hide it?” Coquelin, the town’s token actor, smiled at this. He was a romantic whatever the circumstances.

But Dupont shook his head. “No, no, you know how the Inspector is. I think even if he was interested, he would never act on it.”

This was a good point, and everyone conceded its important place in the argument. However, just then Édouard le Sourd gestured excitedly behind the crowd. They all turned to look and saw M. le Maire striding across the square. Inspector Javert followed, several paces behind.

Before the accident, Fauchelevent had joined with the rest, his tongue as sharp as anyone’s. Now he owed the mayor his life and would not be drawn in to the discussion; anyway, he was leaving for Paris soon and whatever happened or did not happen in Montreuil-sur-Mer was no longer a concern for him. When M. Garnier tried to engage him, he just turned away.

Petit Hachette, meanwhile, was watching the pair pass by. “The Inspector looks like a dog on a leash,” he said with a laugh. His mother Isabelle boxed his ear for the remark. “Inspector Javert is the most honorable policeman this town has ever known.”

“But it’s true,” observed Kaplan le Juif, a grin revealing how few teeth he had left. He was called le Juif but only because of his name. Although he had been in the town for years, no one knew much about him. “And looks like M. le Maire isn’t afraid to yank his chain.”

Laffitte the smith had stopped to listen, but he just shrugged and went on his way, being a man of few words.

Mademoiselle Marchand was there with her basket of flowers for sale, and she eyed the two in question. “Would they buy my posies?” she wondered aloud. Her dandy, Nouvel, scoffed at this, but his friend Olivier gave it some thought.

He took his time responding. The young man had always been slow, but he had the air of an owl— when he did speak, it was usually worth listening to. “The mayor might. If not for the Inspector, then for his prostitute.”

“She is not his!” exclaimed the shopkeeper Poulin, his expression scandalized. It had not been so up to now, and they all couldn’t help wondering why. “Anyway, she is in the hospital. It would only be natural for him to bring her flowers.”

Quentin— why was he called that? No one knew; he was the only son of the former mayor, and so harbored a dislike for M. Madeleine— got a crafty look. “And why is he caring for her so attentively?”

“It is because he feels responsible.” Rousseau, called the Philosopher, occasionally lived up to his appellation. “Nothing more.”

Enjolras/Combeferre, battlefield surgery. Enjolras takes a bullet to the side in 1830, Combeferre has to dig it out with Enjolras fully conscious and trying not to scream. (Because guess what won't be invented until the 1840s? If you guessed 'anaesthesia,' congratulations, you win a free bucket of nightmare fuel! Careful, it's highly flammable and may induce vomiting after you wake up.)

Focus on absolute trust, forced bodily intimacy--Combeferre is digging around in Enjolras' abdomen FFS, and Enjolras can feel him doing it--and having to inflict unimaginable amounts of pain to save a friend's life. Basically a non-sexual, incredibly intense version of some of the "fuck or die"/"one character forced to rape another" prompts. Bonus if Combeferre is incredibly shaken up because he doesn't have much experience actually operating on a living patient, or if he has trouble maintaining the necessary detachment when it's Enjolras under the knife. Especially Enjolras at his most stoic and also his most vulnerable, trusting Combeferre unquestioningly and using what little coherence he's got left to talk him through it.

Nonny might have squeaked aloud while reading HMS Surprise for the first time. And then again upon seeing that scene included in the Master & Commander movie. This is a kink that is not in any way sexual but still hits me right in that squirmy place in the chest.

Inspired by Temeraire and the Paris Is Burning fill (I hope this is okay!):

Grantaire is Napolean's dragon. After Napolean's death, he refuses another captain... until one day he sees Enjolras (either male or crossdressing-because-military!always-a-woman) and picks Enjolras as his new captain.

Enjolras, a Jacobin revolutionary at heart who is planning on jumping sides when the next uprising happens, suddenly finds him, not with a sympathetic baby!dragon, but with *the Emperor's* dragon.

But seriously, when Enjolras gets Grantaire as his dragon and everyone collectively goes "Oh shit" because who's this? Is he the next emperor type person? And Enjolras is all >:( "No" and Grantaire's there like "what do you mean I can't drink? Don't you know how much stronger that makes my fire?"

Jehan/Montparnasse, Eponine/Cosette, modern AUMontparnasse and Eponine have been mutual beards and best friends since high school, but now they're at college they're still getting mistaken for a couple because of habits they've picked up from pretending to be a couple for so long. However, when Eponine falls for Cosette and Montparnasse calls for Jehan, things get complicated. Focus on how to deal with a relationship as platonic friends after spending years on end pretending to be that obnoxious couple who are always all over each other.Bonus points for:- Cosette's two dads either being mentioned or making an appearance, and Montparnasse being absolutely terrified of Valjean because he scared Montparnasse away from a life of crime in high school.- Enjolras/Grantaire and Les Amis as gay rights campaigners

A silly argument (like "could Batman beat Iron Man in a fight?"-type silly) breaks out in the Musain and pretty soon everyone finds themselves roped in as it becomes SERIOUS BUSINESS. Sides are taken. Hairs are split. Graphic aids are employed. All productivity grinds to a screeching halt until this. Is. SETTLED.

Eventually they're split 4 vs. 4. Who the deciding vote is is up to you, but it's not an enviable position to be in.

This happens all the time with my friends, but the thing is, there have been friendships almost broken over pointless arguments. When you look back on it, it's hilarious but at the time it was RLY SRS BSN!!!!!!

We have travelled through mountains 1/?

The heat was oppressive in the city and unrest bubbled beneath the surface, from the poorest alleys all the way into the wealthy merchant quarters. With the mood of Paris so volatile, Valjean felt that Cosette's safety demanded that they temporarily evacuated to cooler lands.

Thus, when the good Sister's mentioned that they had received a large a donation of furniture they wished to pass on to a struggling convent deep in the Alps, Valjean was happy to promise to ensure that the gifts arrived. From everything he knew, the simple villages would be a fitting harbour for a year or two; healthy mountain air and fresh spring water to keep their bodies sound, and a convent school for Cosette to finish her education in.

There lured to, in the back of his mind, the memory of a young boy grievously mistreated by himself, and the opportunity to pay the debt back – if not to the boy himself, then his fellows at the least.

In a rented wagon they left, just before the height of summer broke. Following them was a covered cart with art, furniture and religious icons for the parish. Valjean made sure to slip down a well-filled purse into an empty drawer before everything was secured for the ride, but otherwise let the drivers care for the items. His task was merely to assure that no pieces were lost in toll-expenses or otherwise came astray, such as when they re-packed everything onto mules for the last part of the journey.

Once they had delivered the goods to the convent, Valjean arranged for accommodations in a village further down the valley, in the sleepy village of Saint-Paul-Sur-Ubaye. Here, they rented a small cottage overlooking the river. Valjean's summer was spent hiking, reading, chasing butterflies and enjoying Cosette's delight as she spotted her first mountain goat. As a gentleman of leisure, raising his daughter after his wife's tragic death, Valjean and Cosette were welcomed with reserved politeness. As a neighbour always willing to spend an hour helping out with the torn-down fence, or offering a hand for a lady carrying a heavy pail, or looking after a young widower's small children for the afternoon, they were soon accepted into the community as well as any outsiders could be. Cosette even gained two closes friends among the local girls, and spent several afternoons playing with them after her lessons ended for the day.

Though Valjean could not help miss the bustle of Paris, especially during night time when the entire valley seemed covered by a heavy blanket of silence, he was relieved that this tiny hamlet had taken them in so well. The news from home grew dire, and since Cosette liked it so well, he decided that they should stay through the winter and another full summer, before returning come next autumn.

Here, there was peace. Here, they could rest and relax before returning to attempt to do good in the world.

part 1

Right so I've never written fic before ever, but this prompt just gave me a lot of feelings? It'll deal more with the genderfluidity in later parts I promise! ohgodihopeitsokay.

---

It’s a ragged April evening, the air sharp enough to dig into the best of coats, and the waifish young man who goes with half-dancing step along the pavement, kicking at nothing with worn-down shoes, has only a thin blouse and trousers. He sings vaudeville scraps, changing the original words for a string of insults against the rudely biting wind.

‘Well, get on with it,’ he says, stopping to look up at the stubbornly wintry sky. The sunset seeps across grimy clouds, as if the heavens were the gutter and the streets were spilling grease and lamplight over them.

Stepping forward again, with eyes still cast upwards, he finds himself accosted by a tall, slender man with a very nice coat indeed.

‘It that you, Eponine?’ the tall figure enquires, in a voice as silken and dark as his crimson cravat.

‘Ah, Montparnasse! Fancy seeing you here. What are you up to?’

Montparnasse stares a moment, and then shrugs.

‘Would you like to be up to something? Isn’t it a wretch of an evening? I don’t believe it’s April at all, I think the springtime’s gotten drunk and lost its way in an alley. And if I know you, you’ll have followed it there and rifled its pockets. Warmth to spare in those hands of yours, I’ll bet.’ He bobs up onto the balls of his feet to look Montparnasse in the eye. ‘How about it, ’Parnasse, my friend? Help a poor boy out?’

‘I’m not in the habit of helping, little ’Ponine.’ He gives the other a slow once-over. ‘Except for helping myself, but what would I want with a stray like you?’

‘Ah, now there’s a question! What would you want?’ Eponine leans closer. ‘Shall I guess? Dear Montparnasse, prowling around the skirts of the day with that restless look in your eye. I imagine you want to be--’ he jumps back with a laugh before Montparnasse can grab his wrists.

‘Watch it,’ Montparnasse says, but he can’t seem to keep his lips from twitching into a smile.

As the gloom deepens above them, Eponine clicks his tongue impatiently. ‘Ah, well. If you don’t want to hear about it, I’ll be off.’ He turns to go, and this time Montparnasse does grab him, long fingers tight around his arm.

‘Tease!’

‘What are you going to do about it?’

Montparnasse relaxes his grip, and moves as if to offer his arm for Eponine to hold. Eponine laughs again at that, and instead sticks his hands into his pockets. And they go, under the dirty twilight, an oddly matched pair: the tall man with his coat and hat and lazy saunter, the shorter with his rags and skipping walk.

Someone bets Grantaire that he can't get Jehan to write a poem about him (bc he's ugly or bc he's Grantaire or whatever). Grantaire takes them up on it and seduces Jehan because he's pretty sure that will lead to poetry. The thing is he was expecting Jehan to be shy and a bit awkward in bed too but it turns out that he's incredibly experienced and it is by far the best sex Grantaire has ever had. He starts to get distracted enough by the fling that he forgets to pull Enjolras' pigtails quite so much and the Amis gradually begin to think something's seriously wrong with him. (Bonus for Joly assuming he's dying or something).

I dunno, maybe he was weaned way too early as an infant & neglected and often hungry as a child and got into a habit of sucking or chewing on things to comfort himself.

When he finally ends up in a relationship with Valjean, he's constantly got his mouth on him when they're in private - not just kissing or just Valjean's cock (which he likes even after it goes soft) but his hair, his fingers, nipples, whatever. Valjean is confused by it at first but eventually is just like "eh oh fine, whatever. Here, have a nipple and go the fuck to sleep already."

Joly threw Bahorel's legs over his shoulders. Bahorel gasped a little; his ass was still a little pink and sore from getting the riding cop and Joly was pounding the fuck out of his ass. Squeezing his balls, Joly thrust just a touch harder, almost the point where Bahorel could not handle it any longer. Bahorel gasped as he came. Joly had not. Withdrawing himself, he snatched Bahorel by the curls and shoved his mouth down hard around his cock.

WE HAVE REACHED ROUND THREE. We are glorious perverts. I love you all.Anyways, I would absolutely adore some E/R where R convinces (or pisses him off enough to) Enjolras to go shot for shot with him, resulting in some really hot public exploitation while the other amis look on in awe, amusement and mild exasperation.Nobody has ever filled one of my prompts before, pretty please?

Javert is there instead of Fantine to lead Valjean to heaven at the end. Except instead of quietly leading him into heaven, he's quite peeved that he died so Valjean could keep his life and Valjean's just throwing it all away because his daughter got married. He bullies him into staying alive and going back with Marius and Cosette.

Repost: Not OP but this prompt really stood out to me because I am a sadistic bastard

enjolras is taken prisoner and expects to be excecuted/tortured

instead he is raped

and this loss of control of his own body, this violation down to his core, just completely breaks him in a way he never thought he could be broken and he's a crying, begging mess and it's humiliating because he's the revolution leader and these dudes are raping him and taunting him and laughing as he breaks

then rescue happens and he talks about his feelings to a person of your choice

I don't know much about Bahorel's character but from all the fics I've read, he has a bit ofViolent streaks? What if most of the time he can control himself, but sometimes for whatever the reasonshe forgets himself and really gets violent, and only person who can control is Enjolras.